


Through the Door, Smiling

by riverlight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Graduation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," Derek says, "how does it feel to be a graduate?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Door, Smiling

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my darling amoama for beta!

Stiles is doing good; he’s doing great, in fact, is floating along on a giddy combination of post-ceremony euphoria and shots stolen with Jackson in the locker room, when the crowd parts and suddenly Derek appears out of a sea of taffeta, boom, right in front of him where Stiles would have sworn nobody was standing just a second ago. "Derek," Stiles says, and trips to a stop, because—is he wearing a _suit?_

“Stiles,” Derek says, and reaches out and punches him, lightly, on the shoulder, as if he just saw Stiles yesterday and not _four months ago._

“Uh,” Stiles says, which—really, he thought he’d gotten over his nervousness around Derek ages ago, months (years) of exposure enough to dull the impact of Derek’s narrow waist, his crooked smile, his oddly graceful hands, but apparently enough time’s gone by that he’s lost whatever immunity he ever had. “You, uh—you look nice. I didn't—I didn't expect to see you here, man."

"Got back last night," Derek says. "So how does it feel to be a graduate?" His smile is warm, easy. "Congratulations, by the way."

"Thanks," Stiles says. It feels—weird, is the answer. It's weird to think this is the last time he'll see the gym, last time he’ll see the same stupid party decorations they drag out for every dance and awards ceremony. Good, because he’s been wanting out of Beacon Hills for years, but bittersweet, too, because they’re all going off in September, scattering, and it’s never been easy, but he thinks he’ll miss it, all the same. He’s been coasting all night on this strange feeling that’s neither sadness nor happiness but a little bit of both, like his heart’s a little bruised, a little tender. “I don’t know,” he says, finally, because Derek’s gaze is open and patient the way he’s learned to be these last few years, and Stiles doesn’t know what else to say. “Ask me tomorrow. It’s kind of surreal, you know?”

“Endings are hard,” Derek agrees, and Stiles thinks, oh. He probably _does_ know, doesn’t he? Not that Derek ever had this, exactly, but Stiles knows enough about his life with Laura to know they were always moving, always moving on.

He should probably be enjoying this more, should be storing up as many memories as he can so he can remind himself of this later. He should be over in the corner, maybe, laughing with Scott and Allison and Lydia and Jackson, or covering Danny while he spikes the punch, or badgering the DJ to play Sinatra so he can drag Erica onto the dance floor for old times’ sake.

But Derek’s here after four months off on his little pilgrimage or whatever it was, and Stiles has always wanted—has always wanted Derek’s attention, he can admit it, and right now he has it, Derek’s gaze wide and steady in the dim fog-machine-and-disco-ball light, so—screw it. “Wanna get out of here?” Stiles says, and watches Derek’s smile turn up, just a little, in the corner of his mouth. “You can tell me all about the crazy road-trip quest of 2013. Was it a magical mystery tour? Did you get in touch with your inner wolf, Derek? Did you ‘find yourself’?”

Derek rolls his eyes and sighs, but it’s—fond, Stiles thinks, and has it always been that way or is this a new thing? Four months away and he can’t tell the difference any more. “It wasn’t a _quest,_ Stiles,” Derek says. “Real life isn’t like your online role-playing games or whatever the hell they are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, and he can feel himself smiling without meaning to, because yeah, things were quieter when Derek was away—the dude’s a magnet for crazy supernatural shenanigans, Stiles will swear that to his dying day—but the quiet’s not as much fun when Derek’s not around, either. “Come on, dude, if you’re going to leave me here with only your pack of miscreants for company the least you can do is tell me about your adventures afterwards.”

Derek’s quiet long enough that Stiles thinks he’s crossed some invisible line, but then Derek says, “I’ve— I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the car,” quietly, so quiet Stiles can hardly hear him over the music. “I was going to save it for later, with everyone, but—we could get a head start.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the combination of exhaustion and the relief at finally being done, or maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t seen Derek for almost half the year, but he feels Derek’s gaze like something weighty, a prickle of awareness, electric against his skin.

He’s—he’s been catching Derek looking, for a while now; Derek can try to hide it all he wants but Stiles isn’t _stupid,_ he knows what looks like that mean, but—this is the first time Derek’s letting Stiles see him look. So. “Lead on, dude,” he says.

And he’s not gonna be able to tell his dad about this in the morning when he asks, probably won’t even tell Scott, but this is better, he thinks fiercely, than whatever else he’d have done tonight. He hasn’t had the normal high school experience since the day he led Scott into the woods to look for a dead body, and he’s sick of pretending he has, sick of pretending to care about chemistry and homework and—dances, whatever. Whatever other flaws Derek has, at least he never makes him _pretend._

So he leans up against Derek’s car, drinks champagne out of the little plastic cup from Derek’s thermos and lets Derek tell him about the road, about the people he’d met, and the werewolves; he listens to Derek’s voice get low and halting as he describes going back to the places he’d lived with Laura. The moon’s quarter-full and golden on the horizon, and Derek’s parked far enough away that it feels private; he can still hear the music from the gym, bass thumping, but it’s overlaid with the sound of tree-frogs singing, the call of some night bird off over the lacrosse field.

He’s not sure which one of them leans in first, which one of them makes the move, but by the time they meet in the middle Derek’s smiling. The kiss tastes like champagne, sweet and sharp on Derek’s tongue. He’s—this isn’t the first time he’s ever kissed someone, but this is the first time it’s felt so easy. Stiles licks at the seam of Derek’s lips, lets Derek let him in, breathes, shaky and overwhelmed, into Derek’s mouth.

“Listen,” Derek murmurs, after a minute. “I don’t know what’s coming next for you, but I just wanted—I just wanted to say,” he says, and trails off, the first time all night he’s sounded like the old Derek Stiles first met, terse and tongue-tied.

“Mm?” Stiles says. May in Beacon Hills is muggy and damp; Derek’s shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie; Stiles slides his hand along the crisp fabric of his shirt and rests it on Derek’s hip. Derek shivers a little.

“Stiles, it’s—it doesn’t have to be an ending, you know,” Derek says, carefully. “I left, but—I came back.”

It takes him a moment to figure it out, what Derek means. Not just came back after his road trip, but came _home._ For good. That’s what it means, he knows, that Derek did come back. He’s wearing a suit that he’d kept in a storage unit in New York, and the back seat of his car is full of boxes. He’s established his territory, he’s on good terms with Stiles’ father. He’s here to stay.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay.” And lets Derek kiss him again.

 

 


End file.
